Laced with Poison (16 page)

“Now, now, it’s probably not as dire as all that,” Emma said, although her heart was
sinking.

“I’ve stopped using the edible flowers on my cupcakes.” Bitsy gave a loud sniff and
rubbed her nose with the tissue. “I feel terrible doing that to Liz, but I can’t take
any chances. Then today, people suddenly stopped coming in. Normally by now I’d have
sold most of my inventory.” She waved a hand toward the still full display cases.

“I wonder…”

“What?” Bitsy looked up, her large eyes filled with tears.

“I wonder if someone planted that story in the
Post
. There’s been nothing in the paper up till now.”

“That’s true.” Bitsy wiped her eyes and nose with the tissue, took a deep breath and
straightened her blouse.

“The timing seems odd.” Emma wandered around Sprinkles staring, unseeingly, at the
rows and rows of delicious cupcakes. She picked up the copy of the
Post-Intelligencer
that Bitsy had lying out on the counter. “First—nothing. Frankly, I can easily imagine
Marjorie Porter forbidding the paper to run any stories on Jessica’s
death. She wouldn’t want her daughter-in-law’s name in the paper.”

Bitsy gave a short laugh. “That’s for sure. The only time a true Southern gentlewoman
is supposed to have her name in the paper is when she’s born, when she’s married and
when she dies.”

Emma nodded. “So Marjorie kills any mention of the trunk show and how Jessica died
at Deirdre’s.”

“But why would they print something now?”

“What if Marjorie changed her mind and gave them the go-ahead?”

“Why on earth would she do that?”

“Maybe Deirdre’s cleaning lady told Deirdre about our visit to the Porter garden.
And maybe that ticked Deirdre off enough to mention it to Mama Porter. Mama Porter
decided we had to be made to pay so she called the paper.”

Bitsy was slowly nodding. “I think you could be right.”

“Everyone reads the story in the
Post
.” Emma picked up the paper and scanned the article. She pointed to one of the paragraphs
with her index finger. “It says right here, ‘The foxglove flower that killed Jessica
Scott was believed to have come from one of the cupcakes provided by Sprinkles on
Market Street.’”

Bitsy slumped against one of the display cases. “I’m ruined.”

Words of sympathy rose to Emma’s lips but were stilled by a sudden thought. What if
Sweet Nothings was next? What was to stop Marjorie from taking some action against
them? Bitsy hadn’t been the only one sneaking into Deirdre’s garden—Emma and Liz had
been there, too.

*   *   *

EMMA was looking forward to hearing about Arabella’s evening with Francis. She was
also looking forward
to sampling a piece of Arabella’s
bastilla
. She hoped that Francis was appropriately appreciative of all the work Arabella had
gone to.

Arabella’s expression was less than rosy when she arrived at Sweet Nothings on Saturday
morning.

“What’s the matter?” Emma asked as soon as Arabella had fixed herself a cup of coffee.

“Nothing’s the matter. What makes you think something is the matter?” Arabella said
rather more sharply than usual.

Emma’s stomach clenched. Had Arabella found out about the extra money she’d spent
on the lingerie from Monique Berthole? It didn’t seem likely. Besides, Arabella was
the sort to tackle things head-on. It was one of the traits Emma treasured about her.

Emma watched as Arabella absentmindedly stirred three spoons of sugar into her coffee.

“Something’s wrong. I know it.”

Arabella took a sip of her coffee and grimaced. “Good heavens, what on earth did I
put in here?”

“A lot of sugar.”

“You can say that again.” Arabella put the cup down decisively.

“I wish you’d tell me what’s bothering you.”

Arabella frowned and rubbed a hand across her forehead. “It’s rather silly, to be
honest with you. It’s not as if I didn’t know that Francis was a police officer.”

“This has something to do with his job?”

Arabella nodded. “He’s been put on a new assignment. He swears it isn’t dangerous,
but I don’t believe him for a minute. Why can’t he retire and enjoy life on his pension?
He’s old enough. There’s no need for him to
be risking life and limb at his age. Leave that for the younger men.”

“But isn’t that part of what you like about him?”

Arabella looked sheepish. “I suppose you’re right. That sense of danger is…”

“Sexy?”

“I prefer the word
alluring
.”

Emma filled a mug with water and put it in the microwave. “How dangerous is this assignment
of his?”

“He insists it’s nothing, but it sounds quite perilous to me. It seems he’s going
to be working undercover. Apparently there has been a string of bank robberies around
Henry County. Not the usual bumbling sort of affair where the thieves make off with
less than a thousand dollars’ worth of marked bills. These thieves are emptying safe-deposit
boxes.”

“What is Francis going to do?” Emma retrieved a tea bag from the counter over the
small sink and dunked it into her mug.

“He’s going to pretend to be the night watchman at one of the banks they expect the
thieves to target next.” Arabella’s face clouded over.

“What’s wrong?”

“During the last two robberies, the night watchman was shot. One of them died,” Arabella
added in a very small voice.

Emma tried to hide her dismay. This venture of Francis’s did sound very dangerous
indeed.

“I wonder how Bitsy is today. I do hope yesterday was a fluke and that business picks
up for her today,” Arabella said, adroitly changing the subject.

Just then the door banged open and Sylvia entered. She stopped on the threshold for
a prolonged fit of coughing.

“Can I get you some water?”

Sylvia shook her head. “I’ll be fine in a minute.” Her coughing slowly subsided. “I
think I’m going to have to give up smoking. We’re not allowed to light up at Sunny
Days at all, not even in our own rooms, and it’s becoming a nuisance sneaking out
to the parking lot.”

“Good idea,” Arabella said.

“I heard that woman they took to the hospital the other day is coming back soon. She’s
still in a coma, but there’s nothing more the hospital can do for her.”

“Is there any chance she’ll regain consciousness?” Arabella smoothed the front of
her skirt.

Sylvia shrugged. “Who knows. Miracles do happen.”

Something thudded against the front door and was swiftly followed by a sharp knock.

“Coming,” Sylvia yelled as she made her way to the door.

Two large boxes and a burly UPS deliveryman in brown shorts stood on the doorstep.

“Is this…” He glanced at his clipboard. “Sweet Nothings?”

“Yes,” the three of them chorused at once.

He held out the clipboard. “Delivery. Someone want to sign for me, please?”

Sylvia grabbed the proffered pen and paper and scrawled her signature on the dotted
line.

“Where do you ladies want me to put these?” The deliveryman tapped the nearest box
with his toe.

“Over by the counter is fine,” Emma said, peering at the label on the nearest box.

“What is it? Christmas?” Sylvia joked.

“No. It’s the shape wear I ordered for our trunk show at Marjorie Porter’s.”

“Let’s hope this one goes better than the last,” Sylvia grumbled.

“Why?” Arabella raised her brows. “I thought we did rather well at the last one.”

“Sure.” Sylvia shrugged. “As long as you consider someone dropping dead a success.”

SATURDAY turned out to be very busy at Sweet Nothings. Four women drove over from
Nashville, having heard about the shop from a friend. Arabella sold the tall brunette
a pair of peach silk 1930s pajamas embellished with ecru lace for a handsome sum.
The petite blonde snapped up a baby blue World War Two–era Carol Brent bed jacket
for her daughter to wear in the hospital after her baby was born.

Sylvia fitted the other two women for bras, and one of them also walked out with a
shopping bag filled with an array of panties and camisoles from the Monique Berthole
collection. When Emma saw the numbers adding up on the register, she began to feel
hopeful that they might pull out of their financial hole sooner rather than later.

A busy day means a tiring one, though, and Emma nearly crawled up the stairs to her
apartment after flipping the
open
sign to
closed
, straightening the stock and turning out the lights.

She was about to stretch out on the window seat with a glass of cold lemonade when
she noticed that her plants needed watering. She was growing a selection of herbs
on the windowsill—basil, chives, rosemary and some arugula to add to salads. The basil,
in particular, was looking rather limp. She filled a pitcher with water and poured
some in each of the pots.

She was hungry, but when she looked in her refrigerator she was dismayed to see the
sparse contents—a few containers of yogurt, a piece of cheese, some bread and a few
spoonfuls of leftover tuna salad. She was reaching for her cell phone to order a pizza
when it rang.

“Hello?”

“Emma?”

It was Brian. “Yes?”

“I’m so glad you’re home. I was afraid you might be…out.”

Emma realized it
was
Saturday night. A night when many single women had a date.

“I was hoping to be done early enough to take you to dinner, but after closing up
the hardware store, I had to check on a renovation job. We’re on a tight deadline,
so my crew is working six days a week. Have you eaten yet?”

Emma felt her stomach grumble and thought of the contents of her refrigerator. “No,
I haven’t.”

“Do you like Chinese food? I could swing by the Golden Dragon and pick up a few things
if you like.”

“Sounds great.”

“I really want to talk to you about Liz.”

Emma jerked and nearly dropped the telephone. Had Liz said something to Brian about
seeing her with Detective Walker? The situation was easily explained. Most likely
it
was something else. It sounded as if Brian was worried about his sister. Emma had
started to worry, too.

“I’ll see you in a few then.”

Emma hung up the phone, tossed it on the sofa and dashed into the bathroom. She knew
she could wash her face and redo some minimal makeup in under five minutes. Once again,
she was glad she’d cut her hair short. A little product, a little scrunching, and
it would look as fresh as ever.

Fortunately the apartment was already reasonably tidy. Emma removed two glasses from
the sink and transferred them to the dishwasher and added the newspaper to the recycle
bin. By the time Brian arrived, she was sitting on the sofa flipping through a magazine
trying to feel as calm and collected as she hoped she looked.

Brian came in with a brown paper grocery bag in each arm. Delicious smells redolent
of soy, garlic, ginger and other exotic ingredients emanated from within. He put the
bags down on the table and pulled a bottle of white wine from one of them.

“I got us a nice pinot grigio. At least the clerk in the store said it’s good. It’s
already slightly chilled, but if you have a bucket and some ice, that would be good.”

Emma was glad to have something to do. Brian seemed larger than ever in her tiny apartment,
and they kept accidentally touching as they moved about the small space.

Brian poured them each a glass of wine then pulled several white containers from the
bags. “I’ve got beef with broccoli, General Tsao’s chicken and some shrimp fried rice.
Hope that’s okay.”

“Sounds delicious.” Emma put out plates, napkins and forks.

“Do you want one of these?” Brian held up two paper-wrapped bundles of chopsticks.

“Sure.”

“I never could get the hang of them,” he said as he opened the containers and motioned
for Emma to go ahead.

She helped herself to a spoonful of each dish, then unwrapped the set of chopsticks
Brian handed her.

“You’re really good with those.” Brian watched as Emma lifted a piece of chicken to
her mouth.

Brian had unwrapped the other set and was trying to imitate the way Emma was holding
them.

“No, like this.” She leaned toward Brian and positioned his hand on the chopsticks.
Touching him felt so good, and she hated to move her hand away.

Brian tried levering a piece of broccoli toward his mouth, but he dropped it, and
it slithered down his shirt, leaving a greasy stain.

“I guess this is going to take some practice.” He rubbed at the spot on his shirt.
“Someday I’d love to travel and see a bit more of the world and learn to do things
like eat with chopsticks.” He picked up his fork.

Emma had a sudden vision of her and Brian traveling to Hong Kong, India, Malaysia
and other exotic places that Aunt Arabella had described to her. Much as she wanted
to eventually settle down, it would be fun to see a bit of the world first.

Brian reached for the fried rice and spooned more onto his plate. “I wanted to talk
to you, because I’ve been really worried about Liz.”